


Our Live Aid Mystery, Gaping Inside

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [9]
Category: Duran Duran
Genre: A/B/O verse, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Backstage, JFK Stadium, Live Aid, M/M, Makeup, Nerves, New enemies, Old Friends, Pre Show, Worry, labor, tender moments, warm ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: He’s freaking out. Thirteen satellites. World wide coverage. Wembley and Philadelphia. Onebillionviewers.Power Station have ten minutes, Duran have twenty. How are he and Rio going to make it through?
Relationships: Nick Rhodes & John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Kudos: 17





	Our Live Aid Mystery, Gaping Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a whim, I kind of like it though.
> 
> _Happy Live Aid Day! 💖⚡️ ___

_Saturday July 13th 1985_

_Backstage, JFK Stadium_

_  
_ _16:30 ~ Two Hours Before Power Station Set_

Slipping past another hoard of famous faces, Hall without Oats and half of a Thompson Twin, he squinted. Groaned in frustration. Groaned as he felt another small kick at him from within, he immediately palmed his bulging belly and couldn’t resist the half hearted smile as it anxiously crept upon his face.

Now lost in the midst of the half-assed ‘Hard Rock Café’ backstage, he was surrounded by a swarm of his talent, competition, no competition whatsoever and technical guys who really hadn’t been doing a good job.

Feedback had been terrible. The satellites kept losing connection. Swinging his gaze to Bryan Adams not too far from him, he frowned knowing how the first half of his song hadn’t been on air. Then again, members of _Simple Minds_ were dotted about, Jim Kerr had literally been told to walk off of the stage halfway through what was thought to have been the end to his set. Then stumble back on, after having bid the world goodbye, with one more song.

John shook it from his confused head. He was panicking, no need to crack coat it. There was a strange tension in the air, the reality of no sound check was really starting to settle in. The acts themselves, the rivalry... The reality of the audience, the magnitude of the impact the Wembley hurricane was having all over the world already was really setting the bar. How could those, the runt who couldn’t make it onto the super star bill of Bowie, Ferry, Elton and Sting back home, even compete? The lineup at JFK seemed to be a joke, somehow. All of his idols, his biggest influences – _bar Bernard, of course_ – were back home.

It had felt odd, John couldn’t deny, knowing that it was because of _The Power Station;_ the tour and of course his little Rio jiving within him, that they all had to be here. Remain here. Surely they were the biggest act of the night, the Fab Five having the prime time slot.

It also had just hit him right out of left field that he, Andy, Tony and Michael were sharing the same slot as Queen

_For the love of her musical prostitute Majesty, Queen!_

Both groups were on at 18:40 something or other, hours apart. He gulped down a huge lump in his throat.

  
Two hours, he and the supergroup were scheduled to set _Live Aid_ alight.

The nerves were really settling in, he was trembling all over. He couldn’t care as to who was watching him, who was catching glimpses of his daughter and who was sniggering as he hobbled on past lightly panting. _Fuck them,_ he thought, now wasn’t the time for the ego clash: he just didn’t have the strength in him for that.

_Why bother._

His quest for a Duran had proven futile, he wasn’t too sure where he was headed. Running around like a headless chicken, as much as one could run already three days past his due date. He was far too anxious to be kept to his tent, trailer and whatever the hell else had magically materialised backstage. Andy had tried to help calm the nerves, they were closer than ever now and John thanked him repeatedly for trying, though it wasn’t enough. These inhibitions were about more than just performing. The thirteen satellites. The one _billion_ viewers all over the world.

He knew who he needed, if only he could find him.

Another twenty minutes or so, John gave up. With a huff, he somewhat collapsed, a light layer of sweat forming around his collar. He really shouldn’t have worn his infamous shirt of the era: the monochrome check icon. It had been stretched and stretched, as one of the few shirts that still somehow managed to wrap he and his darling Rio to keep her snug. No belts, popping open the collar, he threw his head back, as it pounded, catching wind of some conversation about _Concorde_.

_Oh right, Phil Collins. Led Zepplin. Can’t freaking wait!_

“John?”

“Rio, please stay put so I can watch that set!” He asked her, motioning to his stomach.

“John?”

Throwing his head up, a trembling lip formed on his flushed face. He couldn’t get up again, couldn’t muster up the strength, so beckoned the body down to meet him.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were with An— _Nigel?_ ”

“Nick!” He breathed.

Clutching tight to the smaller man, John buried his greasy mullet in Nick’s neck. Breathing in the sting of his hairspray, teased and teased to touch the sky, John kept himself from whimpering or choking as the stench hit him. Though his shaking fingertips running cold over Nick’s nude skin were giving the game away.

Nick peeled himself away, John didn’t chase him.

“Nigel,” now leaning against the table before him, “what’s wrong?”

John’s gaze fell to Rio.

“John, don’t tell me, are you?” Nick broke off, worry evident in his tone.

A cough. “No, _no_ … I don’t think so.”

“John?” Nick tried again, John inhaled a shaky breath. “What is it?”

John held out a quivering hand, Nick took it. Smoothing out the callouses, the harsh piercing lines from his bass strings from his admittedly little rehearsal - _I’m about to have a baby, lay off!_ – and John tried hard to relax.

“I’m so… you know…”

_Scared._

He stumbled over a breath.

_Fucking terrified._

“ _Scared_ ,” he let out in a single breath.

_Fucking petrified._

Their eyes met, an unsure and thoroughly shattered pair of beaten down browns on a weary and helpless hazel.

“What if I, _fuck_ ,” John wiped a stray tear, burying his face in his shoulder a moment. “S-sorry I, Nick…”

“Don’t, you don’t have to say anything.”

“Just…” he let his quivering hands come to rest atop of Rio, she wasn’t dancing with tears in his eyes, “what if she, you know.”  
  


There was a gruelling hesitation.

“Comes?”

John nodded, eyes fleeting back to his stomach.

“I just, you know, I don’t.. d-don’t wanna let…”

_You down._

He couldn’t watch Nick’s reaction.

_Or Charley._

“I’ve gotta, you know, make it through. Till the end, so we can both tell— mother fucker!”

_Why now? Why not before the makeup?_

“—Then,” Nick inhaled, John gulped audibly, “if it happens and she’s coming… shit, listen Nigel.”

His tears were streaming. He was trembling. In a public place, full of the biggest names in the music business. His rivals were surely milking him and his knocked up faggot self, wallowing in self pity.

_Wait what? Where did that thought come from?_

“Y-yeah,” he swept away the snot, again burying his face in his sleeve, “yes?”

“Listen.”

_Who are you?_

John straightened up, teary eyes flinging open as Nick’s soft fingertips enclosed around his again. He was missing that warmth, the familiarity that he should’ve felt around Nick. His best friend, his big brother.

He pulled his uneasy hands free, they immediately settled atop of Rio again.

He should’ve felt safe and secure.

_Who are you?_

Looking into those hazel eyes, they were blackened by the powder, the kohl. John freaked out, wondering just who he was staring at.

_Why aren’t you warm?_

That wasn’t Nick.

“Nigel, please, listen to me—”

_Why aren’t I happy to be with you?_

He couldn’t get up alone even if he had wanted too.

_Fuck, what have I done?_

“—if she’s coming, you tell me.” John was shaken from his meltdown, momentarily. “It doesn’t matter how, you tell _me_. Okay? You get off of that stage. If it happens before, _Duran_ don’t go on. Neither does _Power Station_. Nigel please, _look_ at me.”

That wasn’t Nick. John was staring at a man, raven black hair, piercing eyes that were boring into him. A darkened persona, a goth, stripped of all innocence and purity. A walking art project, sure, one he didn’t feel safe around now. One he had payed no contribution too, couldn’t stand to even stare at. Somehow, a feeling not too deep inside, John knew he couldn’t trust him. He couldn’t approach him. He didn’t want too. He needed to get out of there.

_You’re not the Nick I used to know._

“If anything happens Nigel,” he was fumbling in his seat, trying to get to his feet, “you come to me, Charley. Roger or Andy. You get the hell off of that stage. Do you understand?”

_Andy_ , Andy sounded good.

_I’m not the… Nigel either._

He nodded, craving the Power to fuel his empty Station.

  
“How long till your first set?”

Funnily enough he had come searching for Nick. Though the whole five minutes he had spent with the man who had helped to raise him, to guide him, to comfort and provide throughout all the success; the excess: now, he was looking through the blackened eyes of another stranger.

John flicked his wrist, squinting. “18:42, just under two hours.”

“Better get you and my niece ready. Duran have four hours.”

  
Not Nick, the man was nothing like the Nicholas James Bates John once thought he knew. Not with _Arcadia_ , his summer abroad, not with him now.

“Shall I help you? Do your makeup?” The voice asked, the keyboardist blurring from his sight.

He stumbled to his feet, heaving his weight. Blinded by the sunlight, deafened by the sudden thrumming claps and hollers from the stadium, John felt dizzy. Tired and disoriented.

  
“And your hair, Nigel? Let me help you.”

  
He didn’t answer, barely able to place where he had put his clothes and what he was meant to be wearing.

“John?” The voice asked again, growing faint.

_Andy_ , Andy was the one word on his lips.

  
Waving somebody off, John whirled about on his cuban heel.

_Whoever Andy was these days, anyways._


End file.
